Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Two
years ago when I was in New York City, my friend Sharon was also in town. We
were friends who both lived in Santa Fe. But Sharon ran a company in the city,
and she regularly commuted between New York and Santa Fe. We had never been in
New York together at the same time, so we decided to indulge in a "power dinner"
on her turf. We caught up, told stories, and shared an exquisite meal. We had a
lovely New York evening.

The
next night I got a desperate message at my hotel from Sharon's husband, Jim. I
immediately called him, and he said Sharon was in the emergency room, in a New
York hospital. His beloved wife, on the other side of the country, was alone in
a strange place. There was no way he could get there soon, and I felt the ache
in his heart. Would I would mind calling the hospital to find out how she was,
maybe speak with her? he asked.

I
said I would do no such thing - but I would catch a cab that would get me there
in ten minutes. He protested that I didn't need to do that, but I insisted I
would feel much worse if I didn't go. I wanted to see her in
person, feel how she was, talk to those who were caring for her, and get a sense
of her well-being. I told Jim I would call him back as soon as I knew
anything.

Sharon and I had been friends for years. Like Jim, I needed to be

with her. To see her, hear her voice, watch her eyes, stay close.
Once in her company, I would know right away if she was doing well or badly. Was
she truly in danger? Was she essentially all right? Or - the most likely option
- whatever was happening, would Sharon keep it all a secret, showing her "I'm a
strong woman who can handle anything" face to everyone around her.

Sharon
had left a meeting in mid-town Manhattan around 3pm. As she walked out of the
building, she suddenly collapsed on the sidewalk, with no warning. Had she
fainted? Was it a stroke, or worse? People carried her back into the building,
called 911, and an ambulance rushed her uptown to Columbia Presbyterian
Hospital.

In
the taxi, I called the hospital. I spoke with Sharon, who insisted I not come
see her. It wasn't necessary, it was too much trouble, she was fine, she didn't
need help, Besides, they were just about to discharge her. It would be a waste
of my time. An unnecessary late night trip, taking me out of my way, for no
good reason.

Her
protests reassured me. If she was feeling that feisty already, she was probably
going to be OK.

I
reached the E.R., which was noisy and crowded. I found Sharon, lying down,
attached to a machine that monitored her blood pressure, her pulse, her blood
oxygen levels - all in real time. Every five minutes the machine posted her most
recent numbers at the top of a list that scrolled down the screen.

I
noted to myself that 30 minutes before I called, her blood pressure was 147
/117. After I called her, but before I arrived, her numbers had dropped to
132/105.

I
sat in a chair a few feet away from where she lay in bed. Sharon was not a shy
person. But I knew she felt tender, vulnerable. Exposed. I asked about her day,
what she remembered, how she was feeling. I glanced at the monitor. Still
hovering around 130/100.

I
moved my chair a little closer. "Were you scared?" I asked.

She
was quiet for a time. Sharon is not prone to public displays of emotion. She was
not going to cry.

"Maybe,"
she offered, tentatively. "Maybe a little. But I feel like I was in a fog. It
all happened so fast."

We
sat quietly. "Do they know why you fainted? Did they do any tests?"

"They
think I was dehydrated. I probably hadn't had much water all day." It was one of
those hot, humid summer days in New York. A punishing heat with no respite.
Because New York is a walking city, most people are outdoors a good deal of the
time. Sharon had not taken this into account. Anyway, she would have assumed she
could tough it out.

"So,
nothing else?"

"No,
they say I just need to rest a while, and drink fluids. They have me hooked up
to that thing." There was a water and a saline drip slowly adding water to her
system.

We
spoke for a while about how it felt to be taken care of. We laughed about how
she was likely a terrible patient. But today, so exhausted, she couldn't put up
much of a fight. And, she admitted, the staff had all been very kind,
thoughtful, attentive.

The
monitor read 119/83 .

"Do
you believe them? Do you think it was dehydration?" I imagined her thinking of
something they missed, on the way back to her hotel, then whipping herself into
a frenzy, for not being thorough, about how were unprofessional they
were...

But
something about the experience had softened her. Sharon was not an angry person.
But she could be tough. Any woman in business in New York had to be tough. But
she said, "No, they've been really good with me. I felt completely taken care of
the whole time."

The
monitor read: 108/60. This woman was as relaxed as any human being could be - in
the middle of the night, in a crowded, noisy emergency room in New York
City.

From
the moment Sharon knew I was coming to see her, her blood pressure had begun to
drop. In less than two hours' time, it dropped over forty points. With water,
saline, and the restful company of a friend.

Jesus
said that whenever two or more are gathered, something sacred, something healing
is born in the community created by our being together. Some of the most
beautiful moments in our lives only arise in the good company of another.

Solitude,
as an intentional practice, can be a nourishing, healing discipline. But only in
the company of good friends, family, loved ones, can we feel held, seen, known,
or loved in ways that help us remember the best of who we are. When we feel
truly seen and known, we feel whole.

After
the nurse discharged her, I walked with Sharon to the corner. It was 2am. I
hailed a cab, took her to her hotel, and once she was in her room, I felt it was
time to go back downtown, to my own hotel, my own bed.

I
had called Jim soon after I arrived at the hospital, assuring him she was going
to be fine. I could feel the relief of all he had been holding, over the phone,
2000 miles away.

There
are times when the simple, unhurried presence of someone who cares for us in the
best possible medicine. Sharon's blood pressure dropped in large part because we
were together.

I
have no illusion that my presence has any special healing powers. Anyone who
cared for her would have had the same effect. All alone, in the hospital
emergency room, not knowing what was happening, not sure anyone knew where she
was - or even who she was - her body felt a tremendous stress. But in the quiet
company of someone who knew her, cared for her, loved her, she could feel her
way back into the fullness, the strength, the beautiful healthy woman she was.

At
the height of the AIDS crisis, I was often at the bedside of young people who
were dying. We had no medicine, no treatment, no hope. All we could offer was
our presence. Over time, I learned that was more than enough. We could be good
company, we could show up.

I
learned then, and was reminded that night, of the teaching of the Buddha: "In
isolation is the world's great misery."

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Are you
ready to be seen? This seems like a pretty basic question but I am realizing
that for many people the answer is not completely a yes. I am speaking of their
Art, whatever that may be, but because your Art comes from you, it is actually
quite a bit closer to home than your Art. It is actually about you.

It is a
natural desire to want to bring more creativity into your life. I see this over
and over again with people I meet. Most people are not able to drop into this
arena as much as they would like in their lives. The tricky part about
Creativity is that there is always something, be it a painting, a song, piece of
sculpture, a manuscript—something that will be created. This thing will be
outside of ourselves. It will be seen and then it will be judged by others.
There in lies the fear.

The
bigger our statement, the more daring we go with scale or audience, which in
turn increases the potential for judgment. Just posting on Facebook, or putting
up a website, potentially exposes you to thousands of people. This can be
challenging. It is this reluctance – caused by fear – that can so easily stifle
our creativity or block our dreams from materializing.

I get
stuck in this place too. And then I remember this: the best work, the best art,
the best writing, the best conversations all contain within them this element of
vulnerability. It is almost as if good work of any kind should have at least a
small amount of Fear associated with it. I believe that is what good work
actually is…work that is born out of taking a risk, going a little further into
the center of the stage, allowing your work and as a result, you, to be seen by
others even if you are not sure.

My new
trick I do on paintings that are turning out to be just mediocre is to do
something bold, something unplanned, something irreverent, something that I do
not know will work. I just totally wing it. This “deliberate mistake” in
midstream can really bring something interesting to the work. We think struggle
and unsureness are limitations but I see them more as fundamental building
blocks to great work – of any kind. When we are nervously moving away from what
we know, into uncharted areas, we expose ourselves. When we allow ourselves to
be seen even when we don’t know the answer, then and only then do things get
interesting, not just for us but for everyone else as well.

In
regards to our work, simply stated, the more we can show of ourselves the more
personal and different our work will appear. This is a crucial little idea that
is at the heart of the only business plan I teach to creatives who are trying to
expand their following. The idea being that work that is more like you will be
more unique (because everyone is utterly different from everyone else!) and if
you are willing and brave enough to make work that feels like you, to really
figure out what you love to make, then and only then will the outside world
really start to take notice. The world, it turns out, craves things that are as
different and unique as you. But first, you have to be willing to be
seen.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

While I was on writing retreat last month, my friend Tamara Sorelli introduced me to some of her favorite free apps for iPad. The one I'm really liking is called Grid Diary. You get a template of 8 boxes in a grid and you create questions you would want to answer every day for a structured diary. While they give you some good questions to use if you want (what are 3 good things that happened today or what did you get done today, for example), I'm finding it's really fun to make up my own questions, to inventory my life my way.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

Once a month, I get together with a couple of friends and we talk about manifesting what we want. We start each meeting by writing out a list of things we currently want for ourselves, our families, our community, our world. We put down material things and spiritual things and political things. Last week we wrote out 50 things each. It was a very satisfying exercise.

Every day this month I'm committed to reading my 50 in the early morning and before bed. I'm curious to see if my feelings about them will change, if things will begin to manifest differently, if I will fall out of want with any of them. I'm curious to see if attending to them daily changes anything.

As I have a daily gratitude practice for what I already have, this seems like a nice counterpoint.

Here are a few things that are on my list (in no particular order):

1. Thousands of people read my blog.
2. My hips and legs are pain-free.
3. My apartment is easily affordable.
4. I have a fit and flexible body.
5. I take art workshops in wonderful places.
6. I am a confident swimmer.
7. All animals in the world are treated with kindness.
8. I have many wonderful opportunities to be in wild nature.
9. I live from curiosity and generosity.
10. I spend all my time in deep peacefulness.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

It's been several weeks since my home studio has been ready to go, and I'm only using it a little. At first, I told myself this was because the weather has been so nice (we're having a miraculously cool summer so far). I've set up my pastel "horse" easel out on the terrace. Pastel is a dirty medium with colored dust everywhere and outside I can house down the terrace or sweep it up. (I'm actually painting with a bath mat below me to catch most of it.

However, I realized last week that this good weather is an excuse. When I had my studio down the street, I worked on a pastel most days and several acrylics. While those opportunities now lie in two different parts of my home, the distance from one to the other is not much further than in my old studio. So what's holding me back?

The very real possibility of making a mess. It was easy to make one in my studio at Troy Laundry. The floors had
been trashed by earlier occupants. The walls too were years from a fresh
coat of paint and full of scuff marks and nail holes. Just as
important, everybody else's studio was old, worn, and crummy too. I felt
completely free to do as I wanted.

Now none of my friends would use the word fastidious to describe me. Nor would I use it on myself. But I like a tidy home and have embraced Marie Kondo's tidying up ideas with a whole heart. So while my studio is in a separate room and I can shut the door any time I want (although my cats don't like that), I still feel uneasy about making a mess.

This uneasiness is not rational. I bought a cheap (but nice-looking) rug for the floor that I can just throw away if need be. The walls can be repainted; and when I move, my landlord will remodel the apartment anyway (it's the only one in our complex that hasn't been remodeled). But I can't seem to tune out where I am--in my apartment--for where I am--in my studio. Maybe it's like getting a new car. We're apprehensive and careful until that first real ding or scratch. Maybe that's what needs to happen in the studio.

Sunday, August 7, 2016

I've been suffering from the discomfort of sciatica, shooting pains down the leg. Mine shows up at night, when I'm trying to sleep. I've had it before but only briefly and it would disappear. It now seems to have moved in with me, so I found a physical therapist who's knowledgeable about this and went to see her. She asked me two questions right away. One surprised me and the other I didn't want to hear.

The first question was "how old is your bed." I couldn't give her an exact answer but my guess is pretty old. I bought a new mattress and springs in the first few years after I moved to Portland. Probably 1999 or so. She frowned, then went on to explain that the older we get, the more support our joints and spine need while we sleep. Get a new bed was her first prescription.

The second question was "tell me about your stretching program." I paused and then said, well, I yawn repeatedly morning and evening. I was joking but that's pretty much the extent of my stretching program. You can't be healthy and old without stretching, she said. I told her how inflexible I was, how painful most stretching regimens were for me. No mercy. All the more reason, she said. Your body needs it.

So now I have stretches to do every day. They haven't cured my sciatica yet (I want instant relief) but I am committed to my health and well-being and so I'm doing them. She's also teaching me how to get up and down off the floor, another essential. I'm not liking any of it but I'm committed.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

A week ago I had dinner with a group of old friends to celebrate the birthdays of two of them. As gifts, I took each of the birthday women a small painting from the series I'm doing. As the paintings circulated around the table, one of the other women said, "Oh, these are just like the paintings of X. You know X. I love her work."

I felt immediately wounded by this remark. First, of course, my paintings aren't just like X's (whom I know, love, and respect) although they are small and they are in the realistic vein. More importantly, the comparison felt to me a diminshing of the specialness of my gift. Although no more was said about it at the table, I walked away with a bad feeling about myself and the woman who made the remark. In the days following, I could feel a resentment forming as the memory of the evening, which had been lovely in so many respects, seemed tainted now by my hurt.

In the wonderful way the universe sends us messages, this week I've been editing for a client who writes books on recovering from low self-esteem. One of the root causes is our belief that we know why other people say and do what they do. We believe that our interpretations of their words and actions are true when, in reality, we have no way to know why they say or do anything.

Resentment is an easy trap to fall into. My friend's remark touched a nerve in me (is my work original? is my work of any value? is there anything special about me?) that has been hard to shake. But I can see that my reaction is mine alone. I have no idea why she brought up X and her work. I know her well enough to know that she wouldn't deliberately hurt me. And while I can speculate as to her motivation, that's all it is, speculation. It isn't the truth.

My task is to let this go. To look at my insecurities. To deal with my responses. Not easy but at least they're under my control. And if my goal is peace of mind, I'll let go now, not later.